Til The End
by RavenWolf3
Summary: AU. A short futurefic. Liz is dying.


Til The End  
  
By RavenWolf  
  
A/N: Just to let you know, this is a futurefic. Alex is dead, and assume that Michael and Maria were a pair. And another one of those totally Max/Liz fics.  
  
"I love you Max," you say, and it's true. It's the only thing that is. The world blurs together as you're wrapped in his arms. It's not like the world disappears there; it doesn't. You can still feel it around you, bright and hard and scary. But now, you can pretend that it doesn't exist. Now, with your dulled hearing and dimmed eyes, you can pretend that you just don't see, don't hear all the changes. And it's good. If it stays like this, than everything is the same. Maria is still alive. Alex is, too. Michael can be sane, and Isabel can be more than a broken down widow who can't hold a job and always ends up on her knees in front of your door, crying her eyes out for someone she doesn't even remember anymore. And you aren't dying in the arms of the one you will always love.  
  
"Liz. Liz," he says, and you pretend you don't hear the tears in his eyes. "Liz, you promised. You promised you wouldn't leave me. You PROMISED." He says, like it's more than it is. Like it means something more. Like they weren't just empty words. Almost like he thinks they're a spell that he can use to hold back death. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, if you love him enough, then you won't be able to break that promise to him. That you can fight back death, just like everything else, with him by your side.  
  
And you think, 'Wait. This isn't how it's supposed to be.' And you don't know why, but this isn't right, and you've always gone with what felt right, always. But there's nothing you can do about this. You're still an old lady, and he's still looking in his thirties. And you can still feel your air coming in small puffs against his chest, warming the cloth. And the truth is, though you pretend it doesn't exist, you *feel* old. You feel it in your bones, in your eyes and your breath, and you can hear how every sound is new, and it just makes you feel that much older.  
  
You know you should be crying, but it would take too much out of you, and you want to delay it for as long as possible. You know that you, with your logical mind, should've thought about this, should've realized that death would eventually come for you, but the delusion was worth it. Ignorance is bliss, and you ignored death for all it's power. And now it'd come to claim you.  
  
You're in your apartment, lying on the bed you've shared with your alien lover for the past sixty-five years. Still here, it stays with you through all your houses, as a stupid, sentimental little thing that neither of you would ever give up. Isabel is in the next room, and there's a soft, muffled sound coming through the walls that might be crying, but you don't want to think about it. Selfishly, you decide that it's their problem, not yours. But Max. Max will feel your pain, and then something clicks. You have to protect him still, even after you die. Because he's too sweet and loving to be able to protect himself without you. And egotistical though it is, you know it's true.  
  
"Max," you whisper, and it pains you to be forced to realize that it's harder than it should be to talk. "Max, I need you to promise me something."  
  
"Anything, Liz, anything," His voice is husky with tears that he's holding back for your sake. You're glad, too, because you know you wouldn't be able to bear his tears.  
  
"Promise me, promise me that you'll stay here." He looks confused, so you clarify, hoping that you don't sound stupid. Still insecure in his love, even after all these years. "Promise me you won't follow me." And from the stricken look on his face, you can tell that he'd been considering it, maybe even planning on it. But he doesn't speak, doesn't promise. "Max!" you hiss with your fading breath. "Promise me!"  
  
He looks at you with huge, liquid brown eyes, the ones that you thought would always mark him as an alien, because you've never seen eyes that beautiful on anyone else. "I promise," he says softly, almost so that you can't hear him. Air comes slower now, and you know that you're getting close. You can't hold out much longer, and you know that it's almost time. You realize that you should've come to terms with death a long time ago, but it seemed to you that if Max was going to live forever, why couldn't you? He'd always heal you, always save you, and it seems unfair that in the end, you lost anyways. Was it all in vain, you wonder?  
  
An image flashes into your mind, of you and him on your tenth anniversary, lying on blankets in the park on a sunny afternoon, watching the butterflies flit by and holding each other, kissing each other softly, and you realize no, there was a purpose to it all. You pull that memory close, and look at him one last time. "I'll wait for you, Max. I'll always wait for you." And you close your eyes for what you know is the last time. You find comfort in the soft movement of his chest as he breathes. 'I love you,' you try to say, but it seems that you've run out of breath, out of air, and out of time. You feel cold, and things begin to fade, your senses cutting off, one by one, and you hold onto that memory with all you've got, because it comforts you, and you're terrified of what's to come. 'Max,' you think. 'Max, I love you.' And then it all fades to black. 


End file.
